Someone Else's Conflict (8 page)

A candle sputtered and flickered rapidly before settling again to a steady flame. Jay moved to put a log on the fire, raising a shower of tiny sparks.

‘What a sad story,' Marilyn said. ‘Where did he go, the older boy? He must have been so lonely.'

‘Brought it on himself. Imagine refusing a gift like that. The chance to forget all your troubles.'

‘Gift? She had them imprisoned.'

‘Wasn't it better than sadness and loneliness? I tell you, it was a gift. Crafty things, magpies. They'll steal anything, even when it means nothing to them.'

‘That magpie sacrificed its life to help the boy remember who he really was.'

‘Perhaps he'd have been better off if it hadn't. Perhaps the magpie was simply jealous. I would be… The gift of forgetting all the bad stuff in your life.' He rubbed his index finger absently with the tip of his other; shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps you'd just end up making the same mistakes over and over again.'

‘Anything in particular?'

He looked away and busied himself firing up new life in his pipe bowl. His silence suggested she'd gone too far.

‘I like the way you told it.'

It was an over-obvious olive branch but he glanced up, clearly willing to accept it. He relaxed visibly, smiled.

‘The odd jobs pay better when I can get them, but the stories – busking – are way more fun. It's a question of balance.'

He blew a smoke ring, let it hover and speared it with a thin stream of smoke.

‘Your turn.'

‘You're joking? You're the performer; I'm happy to listen.'

‘Everyone's got performance in them somewhere. I'm guessing yours is in your work.'

She smiled. ‘Nice concept. Ceramics as Performance – discuss.'

‘From what I've seen you do it well. Have you got any more you can show me?'

She got up and held a candle to illuminate a lamp base she was proud of, organic curves intended to catch the light. ‘It's better when the bulb's working, of course.'

‘Adaptation – the key to life. Put this power cut experience into making a chandelier next time.' He grinned. ‘Actually it's lovely as it is. You've got a real talent.'

‘It's not my best.'

‘What is?'

She shrugged. ‘Depends on my mood. Most of the time I don't think I've made it yet.'

‘A good place to be.'

‘Would be if I could feel more inspired at the moment. I need to be more settled.'

‘Make sure you don't lose the edge.'

‘I know what you mean, but there's a difference between edge and being all over the place. It doesn't help that my temporary workshop is at the craft centre, so I feel as if I'm still beholden to Matt.'

‘Your ex, right?'

She nodded.

‘Is he creative, too?'

She shook her head. ‘The kind of performance he understands is economic. We established the place mainly to sell my stuff, and other people's on commission. Subletting spare space to others. It was doing quite well. Still is – he's carried on running it. He was the one with the business head – or so he liked to tell me. I didn't argue. We met at college; I was the artist, he was doing business studies. Anyway, when we split up we agreed I'd keep this place on – it was originally my parents' holiday cottage, but that's another story – and he'd continue with the craft centre. I still get a bit of money from my share.' She frowned. ‘In theory. I haven't seen anything for a while – I'm using a spare workshop there till I get my own place sorted, which is worth far more than anything I'd get from a share in the business.'

‘Sounds reasonable enough. You mentioned selling through other shops…'

‘Yes, it's coming on all right. I just feel like inspiration's a bit elusive at the moment.'

‘If you're doing OK as you are, and managing to keep producing, why worry? Inspiration for what?'

She shrugged. ‘I don't feel like I'm making a difference. People seem to like it, and I'm proud of what I do, of course I am, but sometimes I can't help asking myself what's it all for.'

He laughed quietly. ‘Does anyone – anything – truly make a
difference
? You obviously love this place, this landscape, and that comes across. So you're sharing it with others. Isn't bringing beautiful things into a grey world difference enough?'

Perhaps it was the wine, but Marilyn felt herself cautiously warming to the man. There was no hint of mockery or irony in what he said, and though she knew he could simply be trying to flatter her, she decided to relax and simply enjoy Jay's company for what it was. She brought a few more pieces to show him.

Eventually she looked at her watch. ‘It feels later than it is. I'm tired, sorry – awake half last night with that storm. I think I'll turn in now. Feel free to stay here by the fire as long as you like.'

‘I'm knackered myself, to put it politely.' He glanced towards the stairs. ‘Are you sure you don't mind me staying?'

‘You're welcome to the barn if you'd prefer,' she said. ‘Seriously, Jay, I'm grateful for your help. It's the least I can do.'

As she passed the closed door of the spare room a few minutes later she thought again how little she knew about this man who was staying under her roof. Where he was from, whether he really lived like he'd said and if so, what had led him to it. He'd told her next to nothing, but then she'd hardly asked. At least he hadn't tried anything on; it surprised her to realise how safe she felt despite this stranger in her house. She shut her own door firmly and drew the curtains on the mess outside. As she drifted off to sleep she almost forgot about the damage to the barn as a wave of optimism turned her present circumstances from an insurmountable obstacle to a temporary challenge.

Jay huddled restless in his sleeping bag, surrounded by the clutter of the room. He'd had a phase of sleeping well recently, even weathered a thunderstorm relatively unscathed – surely he should be able to get a good night's sleep indoors? His mind kept turning to the young woman in the next room, and he wished she were either a long way away – or even closer.

He rolled over and rummaged in his rucksack for his book and clip-on light, but managed no more than a few sentences. He regretted choosing
Crime and Punishment
– he was enjoying it on one level but Raskolnikov unsettled him far too deeply. He considered getting up and browsing Polly's shelves for an alternative, but settled for his CD player and headphones. The music, a compilation made by a friend he'd met at a drop-in centre where he'd spent some time volunteering, was pushed into the background by the unease that came in waves. He thought again of the young lad at Holdwick market place. Told himself to forget it. So he reminded him a bit of Ivan. And? All sorts of people looked vaguely like all sorts of other people. But hadn't the lad stared at him before he turned away? Of course, he told himself firmly, wouldn't you be staring in his shoes? Wouldn't you be wondering what the old git's looking at? But…no buts. And definitely no resemblance.

He glances up and feels the world shift as he sees the boy standing by the door. There isn't enough space for him in the cluttered room but he always finds a way in when he wants to.

‘I thought you weren't coming back,' Jay says. He keeps his voice quiet, despite the overwhelming dread that grips him. He wonders why he always tries to deceive the boy with outward calm. This one cannot be deceived.

The boy says nothing.

‘You promised me you wouldn't come again. After last year.'

The boy still says nothing but Jay can tell he is thinking that such promises are meaningless. Any promise that can't be kept is meaningless. The boy walks away and Jay follows him. He has no choice. His familiar terror that he won't be able to find his way back is heightened by the hope that this time he might have something to come back for. He realises with sickening certainty that this is why the boy has returned.

He passes the silent carcases of empty houses, walls pockmarked with bullet holes, here and there the gaping wound of shellfire, rafters like ribs. All with the life bled from them, from the houses, from the hamlets and villages they used to be part of. He wonders how much, if any, of it was his doing. It doesn't matter what he did, which of these sad ruins is the testimony – he was there, and when he comes back he is responsible for it all. Things are always the same; it doesn't get any less with time. He feels his feet sink into the rutted lane with the weight of crushing responsibility, adding to the chaos caused by neglect and the old passing of military vehicles.

With the harsh cawing of the crows in the trees above him, he continues until he reaches the village and recognises the corner where he took up his position. The burning buildings that surrounded him then are still here, surprisingly intact despite the ubiquitous pockmarks, their windows blackened holes. The smoke has gone, though in places the line between the remains of the ruined buildings and the rubble-strewn street is indistinct. There is silence. He feels the boy watching him. He thinks he sees movement from the alley the boy fled down. He hurries away, unable to face the accusation in his eyes. But perhaps that's what he should do, face it. Ashamed, he slows, turns.

A dog emerges and pads towards him, from the building with the bloodstain on the wall, hunger and menace in its attitude. It sees him and bares its teeth. He grabs a piece of wood from a broken table – he won't touch the gun he is carrying for the sake of a mangy dog. They face one another over the rubble and the scattered dispossessed belongings, and he hears the crackling gunfire echoing. Then laughter. The echoes scare him; the laughter scares him more.

He is on the square now. The laughter came from a wizened old man who sits by the shattered stump of the monument and watches him with piercing eyes. He stops, glances back to see the dog slinking away. Smothered by the cloying smell of burning, now old and damp, watched by the eye sockets of the ghostly shops and houses, he tries to force his feet to move, to run. When he looks again the old man's face is vacant, unseeing, lost. It is not a face that could have produced laughter. The old man is looking at a space just beyond him. He turns his head and his stomach lurches as he sees the square is no longer empty. One white-shirted arm is flung out from the heap of bodies as if in casual repose, the skeletal corpse-face flung back and staring at him with empty eyes.

‘I didn't do this!' he yells, turning and looking round wildly for someone other than the old man to hear him.

‘You were here,' the grey, dead face says quietly from beneath his feet.

He turns away.

‘You let it happen,' says the old man.

He closes his eyes to shut them out. When he looks again the square is empty except for the boy watching him from where the old man had sat. It is menacingly quiet. Suddenly he is running, pulling himself away from the absurdity of it all, away from that place. Zora is waiting for him where the dirt track runs into overgrown, neglected fields. He can't shake the smell of old burning and decay, it is on him, it is part of him. It is also on her. They are the same.

She beckons. He stands facing her, refusing to approach.

‘Come to me. Let me comfort you. Let me make it right.'

‘No.' It should be so easy, but every word is leaden. ‘Please go. Leave me in peace.'

She reaches out her hand.

‘I can help you. Come to me, Šojka.'

‘I'm not Šojka!'

He pushes her away from him, turns and stumbles away across the rutted, muddy fields.

Chapter 7

The tentative autumn sun through the curtains was grey as Marilyn woke to the prospect of having someone to share breakfast with. She vaguely remembered waking once, but had gone straight back to a better night's sleep than she'd had for a long time. Looking out of the window as she opened the curtains, she tried to ignore the sight of the landslide. The night's rain had left, leaving a grey and blustery day.

The spare room door was ajar as she edged her way between the boxes on the landing. She glanced in, trying not to intrude. The space they'd cleared the previous evening was empty, his sleeping bag neatly rolled and stowed to one side. She listened for sounds from downstairs; Jay didn't seem the sort to be shy of looking in cupboards to find what he wanted. She ought to mind that, but didn't. The smell of coffee proved her theory. Downstairs, she found the place looking tidier than it had since she'd got back from Ireland. Genghis's food bowl was half-empty, indicating he'd been fed, and he favoured her with a sleepy glance from where he was curled in front of the fire. Which had been lit. Still in Matt's old jumper and jeans, Jay had his back to her at the kitchen sink, finishing last night's washing up.

‘Morning,' he said, turning to her with a smile like the sun struggling to break through clouds. As if recalling a dream, she remembered it was the sound of his voice that had woken her in the night.

‘Thanks for all this,' she said, waving a hand over the room. ‘You didn't have to, honestly.'